I do not know who I am tonight.
Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?
If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.
The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it; no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
How many different deaths I can die?
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
The lawn was white with doctors.
I wondered what I thought I was burying.
I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.
Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant – but this is no indication of the true worth of one’s total human identity: past, present and future!
To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
A man’s world is different from a woman’s world and a man’s emotions are different from a woman’s emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead – after all, I had been “analyzed.” Instead, all I could see were question marks.
I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy.
Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.